.Itistrue,you aretotally right.I'm as dry as a desert, I'm a deadempty land. I used to be a jungle when the clouds where by my side, and now that they are gone, my trees, my dreamsthey dried and died. Because of this, nothing grows inside of me, there isonly silence and despair. I can't feel what I write, I barely feel aliveI want to feel human againOh god, I really miss the rain

i’m in love.yes. you werewaiting, ibet, for this. this time, though,it is not what you would think. it’s me this time, not you, although it’s still you, but not in the way it used to be you. it’s my fault this time,my doing,my painful,pitiful,suffering.it’s you inthe sense thati cannot control you.

this time,

it’s your mind and your thoughtsthe things that slip off of your tonguethe words you put, pencil to paperthe ideas that come out in your songs

I know for sureThat if the pretty poet had a lifeSo long as parrots,This collection of poetry,So small compared to others,Would have been filled with soothing dreams,Scented with the smell of sweet flowersGrowing in the wide meadows,Where slender nymphs do liveAnd little nightingales,Singing great songs.